


sweet nothing;

by reginleiv



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Making Out, Reader-Insert, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginleiv/pseuds/reginleiv
Summary: you want him, and he wants you. in this moment, there is only that fact and nothing else. in this moment, there is only the two of you, even if you know the same thing can't be said in the morning.
Relationships: Percy Jackson/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	sweet nothing;

**Author's Note:**

> this was unbetad and written at 2 am so... shrugs
> 
> my new mission is to go back to all my old fandoms one at a time... im also running a writing blog for this so hit me up with requests if u want: [http://camphalfbloodwritings.tumblr.com/!](http://camphalfbloodwritings.tumblr.com/)

If anyone asks, you’d be the first to admit it out loud: it’s your idea first. At the time, it seemed harmless enough, something that friends would do to help each other out. It’s just a kiss, really; plenty of friends have kissed each other without any meaning behind them. How are you supposed to know that this would turn out to be any different?

Except, of course, there’s a part of you that hoped it would. Something has bloomed inside you for a while now: an emotion that has grown bigger alongside you that it has practically consumed you. It lingers in the hollow of your stomach, a constant ache with an unobtainable cure.

The wind blows, things change, and somehow, there’s a part of you that is convinced that this is all your mother’s doing. Why else would he come to your room at night asking help for his romantic problems?

He stutters in his confession, babbling the words out in a rush to get them across. He’s nervous, obviously so: his cheeks as red as the fire that blazes back at camp; his skin glistening with sweat, dripping down his face in rivulets; and his hands restless and shaking, moving from one side to another like he isn’t sure what to do with him. 

It’s strange to see him like this at first, and at first glance, you’d think he’s an imposter, someone sent here by an enemy to lure you in. But familiarity sets in a second later, and you bite the inside of your cheek to hold back a laugh. You don’t remember the last time you’ve seen him this nervous before, this helpless, and somehow the idea of him being hopeless enough to need your help is enough to make you smile. 

Something stirs inside your stomach, but you ignore it and choose to focus on him instead. “Hold on, I didn’t quite get it,” you begin, walking over to where he stands and stops, placing a hand on his shoulder as if to calm him down. Walking him toward the couch, you force him to sit down, taking the empty space beside him. “You want my help with what?”

He turns to look at you then, bright eyes roaming over your face, before he tears his eyes away from you and sighs, lowering his gaze to his feet. He is mumbling now, swallowing half of the words as if he could not bear to say them out loud. You only manage to catch a few of them: something about Annabeth, and a kiss, and then a thought that remains unsaid, heavy as it hangs in the air between you.

You’re quiet for the longest time. Turning his words over and over in your head, thinking. Uncertain. There’s a thought that lingers in the back of your mind, dark and tempting. You turn to stare at him for a moment: at his familiar dark hair, messy and disheveled from obvious lack of sleep; at his back hunched from frustration, and at his fingers, drumming impatiently against his thighs as he waits. 

The answer comes again to you, insistent. And when temptation sinks its fangs against your skin, you do not dare resist.

It feels traitorous somehow, to offer yourself so willingly like this. A martyr, a sacrifice, and yet the only god you’re appeasing tonight is the one that rules over your chest, beating loud and fast against your ears at the thought of having him close, of having him at all.

“You could practice with me, you know? Pretend I’m her and… well…” you trail off, gesturing vaguely with your hands. You don’t know what you want to say, don’t know what you should even say. You don’t even know why you’re saying this at all, and now that you could feel his gaze on you, his eyes fixed on your face like he’s trying to pull every secret out of your mouth, you want nothing more than to shrink and back out.

But then he agrees, almost too instantly. You blink at him in surprise, curious and uncertain. There’s a look in his eyes that pins you to your seat, his eyes dark with an emotion you could not name and somehow, the sight of it chills and excites you more than you care to admit. He interrupts your thoughts before you even have the chance to mull on it. “So,” he begins, his voice quiet and unsure. Gesturing vaguely to the two of you, he asks, his words still a quiet whisper. “How do we begin?”

You laugh, and the sound of it is strange against your own ears: melodic like a song, too beautiful to be even yours. Slowly, you turn toward him, and your breath catches in your throat. You don’t realize how close you’re sitting to each other until now; he’s so close that you could almost count the number of spaces left between you, so close that you could feel his warmth against you, familiar and almost nostalgic.

You suck in a breath, feeling your heart hammering against your chest, deafening as it roars against your ears. From this close, could he hear it, too?

“Close your eyes,” you say, and you wish your voice isn’t raw, thick with an emotion only you could name. He does as you ask without question, and you take a moment to savor all of this, drink in the sight of him, take in every inch of him the way you could never bring yourself to do in your most sober hours. His eyelashes, long and curled as it flutters against the blow of the fan, his skin that glistens with sweat, and then his lips, parted ever so slightly as he waits. Somewhere in the deepest parts of you, a flame begins to burn brighter than before, hot and heavy that it’s so hard to ignore.

“Relax,” you say, and your voice almost seems like a purr. He exhales slightly, clenches his hands into fists as he tries his hardest to keep still. Brushing a stray hair away from his face, you lean close, your face just mere inches away from his. He shivers, swallows, lips parting just a little wider as he waits for you to move. Anticipation hangs in the air between you, so thick you could almost taste it.

Reaching up to cup his cheek, you lean closer and take your sweet time torturing him. Tracing circles against his skin with your thumb, you watch him crumble just the slightest. With your breath fanning against his lips, he shudders, exhaling a shaky breath he doesn’t even realize he’s holding.

And with one last look at his face, you finally take the plunge.

His lips taste familiar: sugar and salt, sea and candy, just like him. Too much like him that you can’t get enough. You run your hands through his hair, angling your head a little so that you could kiss him deeper. A sound escapes his lips, halfway between a whimper and a moan, and you swallow it down, swallow it all down, swallow every inch of him down like it’s the last time you’ll ever have him.

Love is a kind of hunger, and you wish your mother had told you that when she’d decided to regale you with one of her famous love stories from her past. You wish she’d tell you about the violence that comes with love: the marks of your teeth against his flesh; the blood that drips from the bites on his skin; and then the angry gashes left by your fingers as you claw against his back. You wish she’d tell you about the ferocity, the desire, the hunger that tugs and pulls at you all at the same time that you’re left as a hollow shell of yourself — an animal that knows nothing but greed.

You remember it vaguely, bits and pieces like a fever dream: of your hands all over each other, reaching, grasping for anything you could touch; of your mouth pressed against his, kissing him again and again until you’ve memorized the taste of him; of his mouth against your, whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

You don’t know if he’s dreaming. When he presses his lips against yours, whose lips does he think he is kissing? When he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, who does he imagine he’s holding? And when you whisper his name against his ear again and again as he touches you all over, whose voice does he think he is hearing? Is it yours? You want it to be yours. You want it to be yours so bad — you want  _ him _ to be yours so bad.

In your dreams, you take him apart and make him yours. His heart in your hands, beating just in time with yours. When he tells you he loves you, it is your name he utters. When he opens his eyes and looks at you, he would see no one else but you. In your dreams, he is already torn apart and yours. In your dreams, he has always been yours.

You open your eyes and wake to the familiar sight of your bedroom ceiling: white and bright that it’s almost blinding. You blink and let your eyes adjust to the light, slowly moving to sit up on the bed. There’s an ache in your body, and when you glance down at yourself, you could clearly make out the bruises on your skin, huge and dark and looking painful to the touch.

You frown, suddenly remembering the night before. Did it really happen? Turning your head to the side, you aren’t surprised to find it empty. There are no traces of him being here at all, no evidence of last night ever being real at all save for the bruises on your skin. Almost as though you’ve made it all up in your head.

And maybe you did; maybe you wanted him so much that you conjured it all up in your head, swallowed him piece by piece until you’re convinced you have every inch of him. It’s not surprising, really; you’ve dreamed about him more times than you could count, and another one of this shouldn’t be something that affects you.

You stand up and walk over to the bathroom, careful not to stare at yourself in the mirror. There’s a hollow ache in your chest but it doesn’t matter. There’s a craving in your heart but it doesn’t matter. There’s a part of you that wishes it would.

**Author's Note:**

> if u wanna see more or send in an idea of ur own, visit my writing blog: [http://camphalfbloodwritings.tumblr.com/!](http://camphalfbloodwritings.tumblr.com/) i dont bite


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